


As You Wish

by SherlockWho



Series: Omegaverse Classic Film Series [2]
Category: Princess Bride (1987), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Established Relationship, M/M, Omega!Sherlock, another film fusion, omega!Mary, omegaverse AU, omg yes i did
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7550680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWho/pseuds/SherlockWho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where John is an Alpha, and Sherlock is his Omega True Love.  But then Sherlock dies, so John decides to marry a princess instead.</p><p>Being a tale of “Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True Love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautifulest Ladies. Snakes. Spiders... Pain. Death. Brave men. Cowardly men. Strongest men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles.”</p><p>Okay, maybe not much of the spiders.  Or snakes.  But I'll try to get the rest in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Princess Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm doing this one next, and I'm going to try to make it work where I left off with "It Happened One Night," and fuse it into the time era of the show that simultaneously broke our hearts and outraged us with new proof of softe, smoll Sherlock and a John actually willing to marry someone else. *cringe*
> 
> **I refer to events in "It Happened One Night" rather often, so I'd recommend a read over there to help put all of this into some sort of context as well as a little bit of insight into my own special version of this Omegaverse.
> 
> Anyway, this is already a hot mess, so strap in.
> 
> *takes bets on whether or not I'm going to have a bunch of shrieking eels in*

There once lived an Alpha named John, who thought nothing ever happened to him.

It was clearly too soon for him to say anything of the sort (in response to his therapist’s silly suggestion that he keep a blog), and frankly, it was also a bit melodramatic as well.  Things happened to him.  Things liked happening to him.  He was a pleasant, easy-going sort of man, fond of wool jumpers and PG Tips, the kind of bloke you would almost subconsciously take up with in conversation over the rugby on the telly.  It would be a nice conversation, the kind that you remember when you read descriptions of quietly sweet old pubs—but it would be deceptive.

Because John was so much more than just a pleasant bloke in a pub watching the game.  John was an Alpha.  John wasn’t just any sort of Alpha, either.

John was a Knight.  John was guided by a moral compass that was sound and true, and it guided him always—which was helpful, because as I’d already mentioned things liked happening to John.  At first it was simply good things, like discovering that he was well-suited to the rugby pitch or that girls really found it amazing that he could do that _thing_ with his tongue—which, honestly, was all he could do with the Beta girls he preferred dating, since an Alpha could never go _all the way_ with a Beta because they didn’t make Betas with the proper physiology to accept an Alpha penis and wow, we really got off topic a bit, didn’t we?  Anyway, all I was saying was that he got off on getting his partners off, since he refused to seek a bond with an Omega because he knew what happened to Alphas like him, Alphas that things liked to happen to.  He wouldn’t do that to his bondmate or his brood, so he turned to Beta females and honored them with his tongue.

None of them meant anything more to John than a pleasant diversion.  Never.

At least, not until he met Sherlock Holmes.

He wasn’t prepared for what a beautiful genius Omega could do to him.  He impressed John.  Okay, it was more than that: he astounded John.  He smelled like secret adventures and adrenaline, like gun oil and live electric wires, old books and high surf.  Sherlock had once asked John when he’d known for certain that he’d fallen in love with him.  John never answered directly, because how do you tell anyone that you sincerely loved them from the first scent?

John had promised to escort Sherlock, who had gone Rogue by escaping his family to keep an arrangement with Dr. Molly Hooper to submit to a Beta Wedding with her.  The legal standing of such an arrangement had been iffy at best, and even wedded in such a way Sherlock could fall prey to an Alpha’s unwanted advances.  Having an escort like John, who put on the crowd-pleasing charade of a traditionalist suitor bringing his intended on a processional prior to their bonding ceremony ( _but no funny business, oh, gosh no!)_ , was as good as being draped in a burqa.

John did eventually publish a series of blog entries that dramatized their adventure, and he became the darling of the blogosphere.  He had thousands of subscribers who went wild for every update, because the fondness and affection transparent behind every word John wrote pointed to one nearly unbelievable conclusion:

This Alpha/Omega pair was True Love.

True Love was often considered a myth, along the lines of St. Nicholas—fine for children to believe in, but there was so little actual proof of the thing that most people left it behind with their single-gender childhoods.  True Love was rare, and so sweet that even the bitterest old maid could not begrudge the lovers.

True Love was between best friends.  True Love was self-sacrificing, always.  True Love was passionate.  True Love endured. 

All of those things sound easy to children, so easy.  And they should be easy.  But disappointments and teasing can lead to the kind of insecurity that erodes each one.  It’s not safe to put all of your emotional dependencies in the hands of one person, that was the traditional wisdom from the elders who knew better than to believe in the myth of True Love.

But watching John Watson chase around after Sherlock Holmes, reading how he not only tolerated his genius Omega, but also how he protected him, took care of him, and clearly adored him—well.  That planted the suspicion in many a heart that there was something elemental between the bondmates, and John was easily the darling, the saint, the gracious Knight who was willing to endure all varieties of horror and humiliation for the sake of True Love.

Things came to a head in a propaganda war, and the propaganda war—in the eyes of most of the hoi polloi—was what led to the shameful suicide of that once-miraculous Omega consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, who had jumped to his death from the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital after being exposed on the expose show, The Dread Pirate Roberts, hosted by a masked and costumed character who claimed to represent a secret society of anonymous hackers.  The Pirate had all the proof the public cared about, so he bragged after Sherlock’s death that the world should have seen it coming, that the coward could _never_ admit to being a fraud, so he took the coward’s way out.

The propaganda war continued to rage in the pitted valley of ruins that was John Watson’s life, after.  It destroyed the landscape around him, until familiar landmarks like the Met were pounded to ruin, good men shuffled off on administrative leave and not-so-very-good men, like certain forensics technicians, chased out of public service in a haze of conspiracy theories.  The very British Government was in seclusion in the Diogenes Club, and John Watson was very much _not welcome_ there.  The Dread Pirate Roberts was slashing his efficient way through everyone Sherlock cared about, and John watched.

He didn’t care.  He covered himself in the bedclothes he’d shared with Sherlock until their combined scent, the scent of their strong bond, started to fade.  He then felt Baker Street as a tomb closing in around him and he left, much as it nearly destroyed him to do it.  The C flat, the safehouse in which they’d only enjoyed one heat (“ _there will always be time later, John, for heaven’s sake.  I’m not bringing any children into this world until Moriarty is_ finished _),_ yawned beneath him, purposeless and raw.

He didn’t care about any of it.  The other half of his soul was dead.  Nothing mattered.

He took one last look back at their shared life, their shared flat, or what was left of it a year after Sherlock’s death, and heard the words in his head as he turned to leave:

_I will never love again._

 

* * *

 

 

Six months later he was engaged to the Crown Princess of Florence, a social media celebrity with a show of the same name (staged in Florence, California) whose birth name was Mary Morstan.  She was an Omega who’d been preaching her devotion to him for the past three years.  It was an advantageous pairing for both of them.

Naturally, the world did not expect him to be over his True Love so soon.  He continued to mourn, but now in that stoic, horribly dry way that meant the grieving one no longer cared if they lived or died.  He went through the motions because he had no choice.  He found it ironic that he’d been the one who’d been suicidal when he’d met Sherlock, but Sherlock’s suicide made him terrified of the real brutality of suicide—namely, what it did to the people you left behind.  He was a walking corpse, a hollowed-out shell of a man, but he would never, ever put this burden of guilt and shame and regret on anyone else.  He would therefore have to suffer through it, until his natural end.

He didn’t give a toss one way or the other.

His fiancée was the image of solicitude.  She’d been one of the biggest, most active fans in the “Johnlock” communities online, and she’d observed a proper full year for him to work through his grief, all the while posting lovely photos of him and Sherlock online and mourning the love they’d shared.

It was lovely, in its way.  Weird, but really rather lovely.  After the full year had been observed, she’d proposed to him on Twitter.

He read the proposal three times, shrugged, and accepted, also via Twitter.

Fuck it, why not.  He didn’t have anything better to do.

 

 


	2. But Poor Circus Performers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For god’s sake, who’s in charge of this? Hm?” Anderson asked.  
> Wiggins glared, but said, “You are.”  
> “Yes. Yes I am. I founded the Empty Hearse for just this reason.” He turned back to John and grinned. “To start a war.”

John slipped on his favorite cycling shoes and stopped to examine himself in the mirror in the front hall.

Things had certainly started happening to him again, ever since he accepted Mary’s bonding contract.  He’d been moved into the flat in Chelsea she called home whenever she was in London—which was surprisingly often for an American celebrity—so that he could start his exposure to her Omega pheromones.  It didn’t happen perhaps as often as John originally thought it might (Mary had been quite persistent in her professions of admiration for his physique), but he could sense an Omega’s presence, here and there.  Of course, the scent was stronger near her bedchambers, but he stayed away from that part of the flat.

It felt like a betrayal.

This was so hard for him.  He was still ridiculously in love with his bondmate, and it went far past wondering if that love would ever fade.  He actively hoped it didn’t.  He hoped his memories of their 18-month union would be as strong on his last day of life as they were now. 

He sincerely had a hard time believing his gorgeous mate was dead.  He dreamed of him, even now.  He whispered his name in the dark as he brought himself off with his own hand.  He smiled fondly at memories of them together, of whispered words in the dark:

 _Mate. My Omega._  
_My John. My Knight._  
_Every single thing you want from me, my darling love._  
_As you wish . . ._

And all stolen over some lies told on the telly by a masked madman.

Just the thought of _The Dread Pirate Roberts_ made his fists clench.  He caught another glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and saw that his lower lip had drawn back from his teeth.  He wanted to _kill_.  That part of his Alpha nature had been denied its revenge, and it simmered, low and lethal, in his gut.

This instinct would have to forever be buried.  Roberts was long gone, escaped to Los Angeles and apparently publishing his lies on YouTube from the safety of some high-security yacht somewhere.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, trying to wrestle his rage under control.  He then left this ridiculously posh flat and went for a long bike ride.

 

 oooOOOooo

 

John enjoyed his daily rides through London.  On nice days, he could almost remember what this city was like, when Sherlock was alive.  Car traffic snarled around the foot traffic as far too many sun-starved Brits took to the streets and the parks.  Often, John thought he could hear Sherlock murmuring his observations directly into his ear as he rode through the throngs:

_Too much plastic surgery, John, do you see how her eyes look frozen?_

_John, I don’t believe that man has any right to the handbag tucked under his arm.  He’s a pickpocket for certain._

_John, that young man has walked in front of that bank three times now.  He’s either casing the property or he’s nervous about taking a car loan.  Judging by his shifty behavior, which do you think it is?_

He smiled into the sun and cut off through Hyde Park.

The sound of camera shutters died off as he got properly into the park.  There were the occasional gasps of recognition around him: _“Is that John Watson?”_ —but for the most part people recognized the sanctity and honored the anonymity of the park.  John paused at one of the pedestrian turnoffs on the north side of the park, put his headphones in, and put on Schubert’s violin sonata no. 2 in A minor.  He then imagined Sherlock’s fingers coaxing the sound out of his violin.  His heart kicked in his chest and he rode his sorrow and regret into the dirt.

 Twenty minutes later, John was refreshing himself by a public drinking fountain when he was approached by three people, only one of whom he recognized.

“Anderson?” he asked, blinking hard against the sunlight.

“Hello, Watson,” the man said.  He’d grown something of a scrabbly beard, and his eyes glinted with a sheen too close to madness for John’s comfort.  He was standing beside a thin, angular man in his mid-thirties (who had an unhealthy cast to him that John associated with too many home-mixed amphetamines). 

That person wasn’t even the most note-worthy of the bunch.  That honor belonged to the giant of a man looming over him.  He was swarthy and each of his hands were as large as a man’s ribcage, or at least it seemed so from this distance.

“Er, can I help you?” John asked.  He cursed himself for not having his gun, but why would he ever think he’d need it on a ride through Hyde Park?

“Have you heard of the I Believe In Sherlock Holmes movement?” Anderson said.  The glint in his eye sharpened towards cult-madman territory.

“I sure have,” John said with a fake smile.  He had, of course he had.  He was fairly sure his fiancée started the damn thing.

Anderson smiled.  He moved a little closer to John.  “Then you know we’re friends, right?  We’re in the movement, the three of us.”

“I barely know you,” John said, his caution rising in him but rather unsupported by any real desire to live.  “And I don’t know these other two at all.”

“Wiggins,” said the meth-head.  “You can call me Wig.”

“No,” John said, again finding no fucks at all to give.

“Fezzik,” said the giant.

“Oh . . .kay . . .” John said, his eyebrows rumpled as he looked the giant over, then he shrugged.  If the big guy killed him, he killed him.  Whatever.

“I’m just saying, you can trust us!” Anderson said, slinging his arm around John’s back.  Only at that moment did John notice the flash of a needle in Anderson’s hand.

John grimaced as the needle drove into his bicep, and the liquid burned its trace through his veins.  “He always did say you were a wanker.”

Blackness closed over him as Anderson’s features dissolved into a mask of bitterness.  “Yeah.  Got that.  Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

 

John came to and bit back a sob before he could open his eyes.

The scent, bittersweet and faded, told him he was back in the B flat of 221 Baker Street.  He opened his eyes on a gasp and saw it all, gone grey under a mantle of dust: the fireplace, the sitting area, the desk, the way through to the kitchen.  He was propped up on the old sofa and he bit back a cry of horror: He’d been careful, so careful after Sherlock’s death to not sit here.  He didn’t want Sherlock’s scent to be gone from the deepest places in the sofa.  He wanted to be able to return here in his final desperation to pull the last of his mate from where it hid in the neglected furniture.  Even though he’d pulled himself away from here and gone through the motions of “moving on,” he still felt that his weight on the cushions was crushing the last traces of Sherlock.

Anderson came into view.  “Ah, good.  You’re awake.”

“We should call his brother,” Wiggins said.  John turned his attention to find that Wiggins was perched at the end of the sofa, gazing up at him.  It was a little creepy.

“He doesn’t have a brother,” Anderson hissed.

“Not _him_ ,” Wiggins shot back.  “Holmes.”

“For god’s sake, who’s in charge of this?  Hm?” Anderson asked.

Wiggins glared, but said, “You are.”

“Yes.  Yes I am.  I founded the Empty Hearse for just this reason.”  He turned back to John and grinned.  “To start a war.”

Wiggins started talking again, completely oblivious to John’s look of horror.  “Yes, and we can _do_ that if we call the brother!”

“We don’t need the brother!” Anderson said.  “He’s not even that active in government anymore.”

“I don’t like it here, Anderson.”  The deep voice was thick, like treacle.  The giant Fezzik stepped into the room.  “It’s too tiny.”

“You, shut up, or I’ll send you back to where you came from.”  Anderson leaned up to hiss his threat into Fezzik’s face: “Is that what you want?  To be unemployed, in Nashville?”

The giant frowned.  “No.”

“Right then.”  Anderson sat on the coffee table in front of John.  “I don’t suppose you realize that I was fired from my job, do you?”

John shook his head.

“Quiet today, is it?  Fine then.  You don’t say anything.”  He sniffed and examined his cuticles.  “I was.  Fired.  And I know that’s what it was, not some stupid workforce reduction.  I was fired because I hadn’t taken up with you lot and your True Love.”  He rolled his eyes, then shrugged, petulant.  “I could have been okay with that, actually.  Probably.  But oh, the money!”  He grinned again, that mad grin that made John think of chlorine and Semtex.  They offered me _money_ to do this job, and it’s so much.  So much, John.”  He smiled with an attempt at grace, but it only seemed cracked.  “I could get away from all of these idiots and set up a proper empire somewhere.”  He sighed.  “Imagine it.”

Wiggins had taken up surveillance at one of the windows in the sitting room and huffed a laugh at that.

“So what’s the job?” John asked.

Anderson’s smile disappeared.  “Propaganda.  Start the flame war of ultimate doom.”  He clucked his tongue.  “You’ll have to die, unfortunately.  Sorry, nothing I can do to stop that.”

“How?” John asked.

“Oh, it’s brilliant,” Anderson cooed.  “I kidnap you—step one, check!—and take you here—again, check!—where I kill you and leave a bunch of slogans about Moriarty all over the place.  Everyone gets kicked up again about Moriarty, and I’m sure your fiancée will ride in to the rescue but by then it will be too late.  Gang wars will erupt all over the city as different factions try to prove they’re the most faithful to Moriarty, now that he’s back.”

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah, nobody knows that but you and me, though.”  Anderson winked.  “All of that evidence on the roof was swept away as part of the government’s interference—yet _another_ reason I’m not calling the brother,” he said, directing the words to the junkie twitching at the window.

“Are you _sure_ nobody followed us?” Said junkie asked.

“I already told you, it would be _inconceivable_.”

Wiggins shrugged and turned back to the window.

“So—then what?  Why start a gang war?”

“I become Moriarty.”

“ _Become_?” John asked, incredulous.  “Like it’s a title?”

“From what I know of the underworld, it kind of _is_ an honorary title, at this point.  Nobody believes he’s dead.  Everybody’s waiting for him to come back.  And if I kill you, then that’s the thing that starts it.”

John’s eyelid was twitching.  It always happened when there was too much bullshit in the room.  “God, you’re serious.”

“I am.  So, yes, unfortunately I do have to kill you.”

John gave him a tight smile.  “I think you might underestimate my fiancée.”

“The Princess Bride?” Anderson scoffed.  “She’s probably still picking out doilies or sauces or whatever it is brides worry about.  She won’t know you’re dead until it’s too late.”

“She has followers all over the city,” John said.  He really wasn’t trying to buy time.  He really, really didn’t care.  He just had a hard time believing that he’d once worked beside both his mate and this idiot.  There was no way this moron’s schemes could work.  “One tweet and every single person who saw me today will give her a virtual map of my activities.  They’ll find you.”

“Again, it will be too late.”  Anderson sighed and stood.  “We should just get this over with—”

“Um, somebody’s followed us,” Wiggins announced from the window.

“Inconceivable,” Anderson said again, shoving the junkie aside and looking out the window.

A black-gloved fist rose out of the night and landed a punch on Anderson’s face.

“Wiggins!” Anderson said.  “Get him!”

“Right.  With what?” Wiggins asked. 

“You, giant, grab him!” Anderson said as John finally collected enough of his senses from the drug he’d been given to get to his feet.  He was promptly swept right back off his feet by Fezzik, who turned him entirely too many times trying to track Anderson around the sitting room. 

“I don’t know, use one of your formulas, stick him!” Anderson said.

“Stick him.  Fine.”  He sniffed.  “I’m going to do him left-handed.”

“You know what a hurry we’re in!” Anderson said, grabbing Fezzik and moving them both to the front door of the flat.

“It’s the only way I can be satisfied,” Wiggins said, pulling a syringe from his right pocket and passing it to his left hand.  Everyone noticed that someone was wildly scrabbling for purchase on the windowsill.  Everyone ignored it. 

“Fine, do it your way.  Catch up when he’s dead.  We’ll be at Canary Wharf.  You know where.”

Wiggins nodded and frowned at Fezzik.  “You be careful.”

Fezzik grinned.  “You too.”

“Will you _please_ stop spinning me around!” John insisted from inside Fezzik’s grasp.

“Right, sorry,” Fezzik said warmly.

“I’m waiting,” Anderson whined.

They left Wiggins there to face the threat.  John cast a suspicious look behind him at the hand that was desperately trying to gain a hold on the windowsill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha
> 
> Okay, it is just TOO much fun casting this thing. Anderson as Vizzini? Wiggins as Montoya? Fezzik as . . .Fezzik?
> 
> I'm giggling and spinning in my seat and I swear to GOD if you guys aren't enjoying this as much as I am then I am seriously worried about the planet. ~SW


	3. The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Syringes are, admittedly, an unconventional weapon. This kind of duel is by its very nature a close-quarters fight. Combatants utilize a mix of several different disciplines in order to win, including Judo, wrestling, even dance. The most important thing to remember about syringe duels is that it’s mainly a game of strategy, of thinking ahead of the curve and being creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so SORRY! Found out a couple weeks ago that we won a huge contract at work and things have been cray ever since.
> 
> Here's a short dose of silliness to tide everyone over until I'm able to get serious about making John a happy Knight again. <3
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always!

Wiggins peered out the window at the grey night outside 221 Baker Street.  The man dangling from the windowsill wore a Guy Fawkes mask.  He smirked.

“Bit of dress up?” he asked.

“Dangling from a window isn’t as easy as it looks,” the man responded in a light, merry tone (nevermind that he was, as he said, dangling from a window).  “Unless you plan on thwarting my efforts at entry to the flat, I humbly request that you stop trying to distract me.”

“I could do you one better and try to haul you up.”

The man peered up through his mask and the window at Wiggins, who stood loose and ready for whatever challenge came his way.  “Seeing as you’re only waiting around to kill me, I’d say we’re not starting from a position of trust.”

“I could give you my word as a member of the Network,” Wiggins said, throwing out the old term of those people from “Neverwhere” who had once assisted Sherlock Holmes with his Work.  It had been a badge of honor, once.

Not anymore, obviously.  The man in the mask snorted.  “No good.  I knew Sherlock Holmes; his Network has no integrity.”

Wiggins sighed.  “Is there anything I can say to you to make you trust me?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” the man answered in that light, half-mad tone.  Wiggins now saw the tosser was fully costumed as V from that idiot movie, _V for Vendetta,_ including the hat.

“I swear upon the memory of Sherlock Holmes,” Wiggins said—with far more sincerity than he was either comfortable with or even aware he possessed—and drew up to his full height.  “You will reach the flat alive.”

A pair of disturbingly familiar grey-green eyes assessed him carefully before the man nodded at him and held out a gloved hand.  Together they struggled; the Masked Man was heavier than he appeared, and he was obviously used to having to bear his weight alone because he did not give the burden of it over without a fight, but they got it settled in the end.

The Masked Man staggered around the flat in what appeared to be a disoriented haze, but Wiggins thought he saw careful assessment of the space and all the items in it.  No matter who this guy really was under all those layers, Wiggins thought he deserved at least a grudging trace of respect.  Heavens knew it wouldn’t do to disrespect an adversary, no matter how worthy.

Wiggins gestured with his left hand, which still held the syringe, in order to still the Masked Man, who was apparently trying to collect himself enough to face the oncoming fight.  “No, no, we’ll wait until you’ve recovered,” he said.

“Thank you,” the Masked Man said with a small bow.  He sat himself down on the red brocade chair and took a deep breath.  He shook out his wrists and pulled off his gloves to survey the damage to his hands.

“Pardon me for asking,” Wiggins said, “but you don’t happen to have a magpie tattoo on the heel of your left foot?”

The Masked Man stopped what he was doing and redirected his attention at Wiggins.  “Do you always begin conversations this way?”

“Me mum was slaughtered by a gang, and every one of them had magpie tattoos on their left heels.” 

The man pulled his boot and sock off, exposing his left heel—which was as clear of ornamentation as Wiggins’ own.

“She was a master chemist, me mum,” he said softly as the Masked Man pulled some ointment from a pocket somewhere on his outfit and rubbed some into his skinned fingertips.  “Taught me everything I know.  When the magpie gang showed up and asked her to craft a near-death serum—the holy grail of chemists, I’ll have you know—she accepted the job.  She slaved a year before she came up with this.”  He hoisted the syringe in his left hand.  The light from the windows shone through it and made the chemical composition almost sparkle.

The Masked Man considered the mixture.  “Impressive.  Near death?  It works?”

“Like a charm.  Breathing, pulse rate, metabolism, all drop to practical zero for three hours.  Subject wakes up refreshed.”

The Masked Man only blinked at him for a moment.  “And you’ve fixed that for me?  I’m touched.”

Wiggins shrugged.  “Maybe I jab you with enough to make you pass out.  Maybe I stick you with the full dose in here, and that puts you in the morgue full-time within 24 hours.”

“Clever.”

Wiggins flushed with pride.  “I am, that.”

“What happened to your mum?”

“The gang came back after the year and demanded the formula, but at a fraction of the promised price.  She refused to give it up.”  Wiggins trembled with remembered rage.  “They slashed her throat, right in front of me.”

“And you’ve been pursuing revenge ever since.”

“Eh, more of a hobby than a pursuit lately.  Hard to pay the bills that way.”

“Instead you’ve taken up with Anderson and his ambition to take over the criminal underworld.”

“Like I said, pays the bills.”

“Do you really think he can lead?”

“Nope, but nobody asked me what I think, did they?”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, you did.”

The Masked Man put his gloves back on and stepped into his left boot.  “For the record, I don’t think he can.”

Wiggins watched as the man left-handedly pulled his own syringe from his pocket.  “So you’re ready then?”

“Whether I am or not, you’ve been more than fair.”

Wiggins nodded.  “You seem like a nice enough bloke.  Here’s hoping I don’t kill you.”

“You seem decent enough yourself.  I hope I don’t die.”

With the nod of mutual respect between masters, they started to circle each other.

 

* * *

 

 

Syringes are, admittedly, an unconventional weapon.  This kind of duel is by its very nature a close-quarters fight.  Combatants utilize a mix of several different disciplines in order to win, including Judo, wrestling, even dance.  The most important thing to remember about syringe duels is that it’s mainly a game of strategy, of thinking ahead of the curve and being creative.

Wiggins was a solid dueler.  Anyone could tell you this.  But he wasn’t the most creative or strategic dueler.  He had an impressive playbook of moves, and that kept him out of all kinds of trouble and made him an asset to the underground.

But he had never dueled anyone like the Masked Man before.

The Masked Man didn’t do anything Wiggins expected.  He did not dodge when he was supposed to.  He did not strike when he was supposed to.  He parried Wiggins’ moves, but he rarely initiated any.  After about five minutes of this frustrating nonsense, Wiggins was sure he was being played with.

“Come on, come at me!” he grunted in frustration after yet another missed strike.

“Patience,” the man said, then let out a strange little giggle and lunged.

Wiggins huffed again, then grinned.  “This would all be very interesting if it wasn’t for a little secret I’m keeping from you.”

“Oh?”  The Masked Man lunged again, nicking the face of Wiggins’ watch with his sharp.  “What’s that?”

“I’m not left-handed.”

Wiggins tossed his syringe to his right and pressed his attack again.  The change in momentum seemed to unsettle the Masked Man, but he still managed to escape Wiggins over and over again.  Fortunately he could tell that his adversary was beginning to tire.

“Wish I could see your real face.  That smile lies,” Wiggins said, gesturing at the mask.

“It does, a little,” the man said.

“A little?”

“I’m keeping a secret, too.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not left-handed, either.”  The Masked Man switched the syringe to his right hand, and suddenly he was _everywhere_.  Wiggins couldn’t keep up with his speed or grace as he flitted around the flat.

In the end, it wasn’t the Masked Man’s right hand that got Wiggins.  It was his left hook.

Wiggins collapsed to the ratty, dusty floor of the flat and wondered how he could have underestimated this man.  He knew all the masters of his trade, and there was no way to determine the identity of this tosser—after all, there were so many masters over six feet tall with a weird, high-pitched English accent.  It was disheartening.

“Who are you?” he asked from the floor as the Masked Man dropped his syringe and reached for the one that Wiggins had dropped when he was punched.

“No one of any consequence,” the Masked Man answered.  He courteously dribbled some of the serum from the end of the needle, ensuring there were no trapped air pockets.  Then he turned his strangely familiar gaze on Wiggins again.

“Kill me quickly,” Wiggins said, thinking it strange that he would die _here_ , his mother’s death still unavenged.

“I would as soon destroy a well-made sword as an artist like yourself—but since I can’t have you following me, either…”  The Masked Man drove the syringe home, but only injected half of the solution.  He watched as Wiggins’ eyes drifted shut and his muscles all went lax with the drug.  “Please understand, I hold you in the highest respect.  Always.”  He pulled a black scrap of paper from his back pocket.  It was emblazoned with the Guy Fawkes mask in white.  Under the mask he wrote with a silver marker:  NOT DEAD.  PROVIDE FIRST AID.

He left the scrap on Wiggins’ chest and ran out of the flat.


	4. The Incomprehensible Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fezzik squares off against the Masked Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh*
> 
> Life has a way of keeping me from having fun. It sucks. But I had a couple hours to kill at an airport, so I indulged.
> 
> Sorry, just a short, sweet little thing. Fezzik deserves sooo much more of my time, and I will definitely revisit him again later, but for right now, here's the wrestling match that sets up the fateful meeting that we've ALL been waiting for.
> 
> PS: I don't have a beta or a Brit-picker, so any egregious abuses of geography here are due solely to the fact that I've only been to London once in my life . . .nine years ago . . .and went nowhere near most of the locales in this story.

Fezzik did not at all like Anderson.

This was rather new for the big guy.  He’d been doing jobs like this since he’d emigrated from France (with a fateful stop in Nashville, Tennessee, and that hadn’t been his proudest moment—and the less said about that, the better), but he’d never actually despised a boss before.  That’s what had made him such a valuable asset, after all.  Well, that and his enormous size.

He did as he was told, however, and he stored away those things that made him incomprehensible (or, as Anderson would say, “Inconceivable!”) to those who hired him.  They didn’t have to know he read James Joyce and the poetic fairy tales of Natsume Sōseki when he was off duty.  They didn’t have to know that he was making his first halting forays into composition, himself.  They only knew that he was large and strong, and he surrendered to the utility of those facts.  After all, it kept him fed.

But as he ran full tilt after Anderson, cradling the little army doctor and hating the thought that he might have to personally kill the man, he decided that perhaps it was time to give up this life.  He hadn’t saved up enough money yet to pursue a restful retirement, but in this case that didn’t matter.  What Anderson proposed would be the ultimate dishonorable act, after all.  There would be no redemption for this. 

Because another of Fezzik’s secret skills was his ability to see the truth behind a person, and he had seen immediately, in the middle of Hyde Park, that John Watson was not only a good man, but a grieving half of a True Love pair.

The suffering man in his arms rather proved it.  He was only mildly curious about where they were and the direction they were heading, but he wasn’t afraid.  Why would he be?  If his True Love was really dead, he’d feel no fear over the prospect of joining him.  The only thing that could have kept him from doing the deed himself had been his good heart, and his refusal to do that to anyone else who cared for him.

So Fezzik seethed.  He ran with a careful gait, hoping to not jog his precious cargo too much, and he let his eyes go red with Anderson in his sights.  He would kill his boss for the first time in his life.  The fallout for that would be the loss of his livelihood, because no matter how awful a boss was, there was nothing worse than a dog who would turn on his master.  No one else would take a chance on him, he knew that.

He would make do with his meager savings.  Maybe his poetry could help.  Maybe not.  Either way, he would kill Anderson before he would kill John Watson.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Unfortunately, Wiggins failed, and Fezzik didn’t get the chance he’d been hoping for.

Anderson turned back to catch his breath as they wound their way through Chinatown, and Fezzik slowed to a stop to find out if he was going to have to kill his boss now, in front of all of these people, or if he could perhaps wait until they got to a more secluded location.

“Wiggins lost?” Anderson hissed through his teeth.  “Inconceivable!”

Fezzik turned and saw what Anderson saw: the Masked Man, his cape and that strange wig flying behind him as he pelted closer.

“He’s very fast,” Fezzik noted.

Anderson huffed in annoyance.  “Handle it.”

“What?”

“Kill him.”

_No_.  That wasn’t part of Fezzik’s new plan.  But he was no master of strategy or falsehoods, so he had no retort for that.

“How do you want me to kill him?” he asked stupidly.

“Your way.”

“Right.  Right.”  He set John Watson down gently on the road as the little people moving around him gawped.  “What’s my way?”

“Why do I have to do _all_ the thinking around here?”

John Watson snorted derisively, and Fezzik smiled at him.  He really, really wanted to protect this man.

He wouldn’t be able to, though.

“Hit him.  Choke him.  Throw him off a roof.  I don’t care.”

John Watson’s face froze when Anderson said something about a roof, but Fezzik had run out of time.

“Catch up when he’s dead.”

Fezzik frowned, but by the time he thought of something to say, Anderson had grabbed John Watson by his arm and had run off.

He shrugged.  Whatever.  Maybe he would kill this Masked Man.  Maybe he wouldn’t.  Either way, when he caught up again with Anderson, he would definitely kill him.

He found that he was rather looking forward to that.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, he did not immediately try to kill the Masked Man.

What would be the point?  Instead, he stood at the mouth of the Kingsway Tramway tunnel, down which Anderson and John Watson had disappeared, blocking the way completely.  The Masked Man pulled up short when he saw Fezzik.

“So, what’s this, then?” the man asked with a pleasant voice.

“I’ve been told I need to kill you.”

“Ah.  I see.  Inconvenient, that.”

“Maybe I don’t kill you.”

“That _would_ be preferable.”

“But you have to best me in a bout of wresting.  No weapons.”

The Masked Man noticeably scanned Fezzik’s size, looking for weaknesses.  Fezzik let him look.  He knew what he would see.  “That doesn’t seem likely,” the man said.

“It isn’t,” Fezzik answered calmly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why give me the chance?”

“I don’t like Anderson.”

The man’s eyes crinkled, the betrayal of a smile.  “There should be a club for this kind of sentiment.”

Fezzik shrugged.  “If you make it past me, you’ll get the honors of ending him, and perhaps you can rescue John Watson while you’re at it.  If you don’t?”  Fezzik shrugged again.

The Masked Man nodded and removed his cape, then began the process of unbuckling hidden blades, syringes, and even a firearm.  He began to circle Fezzik.  “If you’d like to weigh the outcome, perhaps you can share with me the best approach to beating you.”

Fezzik let him circle round him.  He could counter any attack from any angle, and he knew it.  He hoped his stance told the same story to his opponent.  “There is no best approach.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”  The Masked Man pounced and wrapped his long—well, long for a regular person—arms around Fezzik’s thighs.  It wasn’t a bad opening move.  For any other opponent, the Masked Man would have a chance to lift and topple the foe onto their back.

Fezzik didn’t budge.

The Masked Man grunted and strained, but to no avail.  He finally gave up and moved away.  “You’re playing with me.”

Fezzik smiled.  He rather liked this little guy.  “I want to give you a shot at this.  I don’t like it when people die without even a fighting chance.  It’s not sportsmanlike.”

The Masked Man ran behind Fezzik and did a cool, acrobatic little trick where he ran up the side of one of the curved, dark tramway walls and launched himself onto Fezzik’s back.

“You’re quick!” Fezzik exclaimed, swatting ineffectively at the man on his back. 

The man pressed his feet into Fezzik’s sides and wrapped his arms around his neck.  “Good thing, too.”

“Why do you wear a mask?  Were you burned?”

“I just like it, that’s all.  Makes people nervous.”

Fezzik started to feel a little dizzy.  He pawed at the arms wrapped tight around his neck and noticed that the Masked Man was driving one fist into his airpipe, his other hand leveraged into the motion.  “Oh,” Fezzik whispered.

“You’re probably getting rather sleepy,” the Masked Man said.

Fezzik was.  It was almost nice.  “Nnng,” he murmured, and dropped to his knees.

“Night night, handsome prince,” the Masked Man crooned, and his voice seemed suddenly much deeper, a proper baritone.  Fezzik smiled as his eyes closed and he pitched forward onto his face.

From far away, he heard the Masked Man whisper to him, “Don’t worry, big fellow.  I don’t like Anderson either, and now that he’s threatened my mate?  I will make sure he doesn’t see another sunrise.”

That was good enough for him.  Fezzik slept, and only wondered what the Masked Man meant about a mate in his dreams.


	5. The Masked Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is it you want?” the Masked Man asked.
> 
> “I want to understand what happened here, with Holmes,” Anderson answered. “That night, nearly four years ago.”
> 
> “What night?”
> 
> “When Sherlock Holmes faced down a cabbie serial killer and walked away with his life.”
> 
> The Masked Man cocked his head at him. “And why would you think I have all the answers to that?”
> 
> “Because you’re the Dread Pirate Roberts, you know everything!” Anderson shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delays in writing this time were caused by merciless gawping at ancient landmarks in and around Rome, Florence, and Venice. I did manage to do some writing during train journeys, though--when my own Watson was absorbed by something he was reading. I am very much hopeful that every time I pull out the laptop over the next 30 days, he'll assume I'm doing something NaNoWriMo related. :)
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy some BAMF!John losing his patience.

Mary Morstan didn’t have any close friends.  That might have been because she insisted that everyone refer to her as _Your Highness_.  It might have been because she was an orphan, and never stayed in one place for very long.  It might also have been because she secretly had a heart as black as onyx (which, incidentally, was her favorite precious stone). 

The thing that was certain was that Mary Morstan didn’t _want_ to have any close friends.  She had minions, very loyal ones, and that was all she’d really wanted out of life.

Well, that and to be a bona fide internet celebrity.

She’d pretty much gotten that, too.  _The Princess of Florence_ was a household name.  Everyone who was anyone knew about her and followed her on Twitter and Tumblr and Instagram.  Her YouTube show had been viewed so often it threatened the popularity of even _The Dread Pirate Roberts,_ and had become a cable program, and the ratings were growing.  

She only needed one thing to make her legendary.  She needed a Prince.

The way she’d courted John Watson after the death of his Omega mate, Sherlock Holmes, had been very careful.  She could not appear to be anything but sympathetic about the broken heart of a man she claimed to have fallen in love with.  Fortunately, John Watson’s appeal as a Knight made her performance easy; who could blame her for falling in love with an Alpha Knight?  They were as rare as cold-blooded, murderous Omegas, and in that way it was a match made in heaven.

Of course, he wouldn’t be allowed to live long after their nuptials.  Maybe six months.  Maybe less.  Just long enough to establish a front-page tabloid romance, and maybe get knocked up by him (after all, babies were all the rage on Instagram right now).  Of course, his stubborn refusal to imprint on her scent was causing problems on that front, but it was very likely a blessing in disguise.  Falling in love with him, really _bonding_ with him, would make disposing of him much more difficult.  She really didn’t need that kind of complication.

She contemplated all this as she watched the Earth rotate beneath her from her private jet, 30,000 feet in the sky.  She’d gotten a troubling text from her personal assistant, Seb Moran-Wilkes, that John Watson had gone missing during his daily bike ride, and a few disturbing tweets in which she’d been tagged pointed the way towards foul play.

She had to get back to London immediately to sort this out. 

Her phone chirped, and she pulled it out of a pocket in her trademark royal-red coat.

_Text message  
Confirmed, JW taken, P. Anderson w/crew of 2. Pursuing. SMW_

Mary growled under her breath, but smiled a nearly-feral smile.  Up-jumped mercs were always trying to muscle in on her turf, and she always, _always_ had an answer for it.  Frankly, it had been too long since she’d had a chance to flex this particular set of muscles, what with trying to put on the face of a smitten debutante.  Now her “beloved” was in danger, and there was no nobler reason to bring her inner assassin out to play.

She composed a text reply to Seb.

_Text message  
Time to dance. Team Lotus to track and intercept. Hold in place until I arrive. MM_

Goodness, but she loved Snapchat. There was nothing like it for this level of covert wet work.

_Text message  
ETA? SMW_

She checked her Apple Watch and answered.

_Text message  
3:35 at Gatwick.  Car waiting? MM_

_Text message  
Yes, black Jag, plates read HER-HYNES. SMW_

Mary growled.

_Text message  
I HATE THAT PLATE. I told you to get it changed. HYNES? WTF is that? MM_

_Text message  
Apologies. None other available at moment. SMW_

_Text message  
Send MISS-MARY instead. Get it there to meet my arrival. Remove HYNES. MM_

_Text message  
MISS-MARY in Edinburgh. SMW_

_Text message  
FUCK. Hire a car. Do better at your job, Seb. OR ELSE. MM_

Mary tossed her phone into her purse and leaned back into her seat. She’d probably never fire Seb.  He knew too much.  But yes, she just might kill him someday.

 

* * *

 

 

“Have a seat, Roberts.”

The Masked Man slowly approached the long table at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, his eyes fixed on the deranged former forensics technician and the sandy-silver haired Alpha seated blindfolded next to him.  His eyes missed nothing.  His face, hidden behind the mask, showed nothing. 

He’d spent the last two years cultivating a careful neutrality, and this moment was the ultimate test of his skill.

“Why should I?” he asked in his glib tenor.

“Will probably make this next bit easier for you.”

“Not sure about that,” the Masked Man trilled, but took a seat anyway.  This was all far too familiar.

Phillip Anderson looked a fright.  His hair was wild, and his scraggly, patchy beard seemed to have been recently electrocuted.  The worst, of course, were his eyes: manic and filled with a nearly hysterical desperation that rendered the gun pressed to John Watson’s temple as the most potent threat in the room.

“You sat down. Good, good.  That means you can take direction.  That’s very good.”

“What is it you want?” the Masked Man asked.

“I want to understand what happened here, with Holmes,” Anderson answered.  “That night, nearly four years ago.”

“What night?”

“When Sherlock Holmes faced down a cabbie serial killer and walked away with his life.”

The Masked Man cocked his head at him.  “And why would you think I have all the answers to that?”

“Because you’re the Dread Pirate Roberts, you know _everything_!” Anderson shouted, his voice shrill and mad, a very poor impersonation of the intro cry to Roberts’ YouTube reports: _I’m the Dread Pirate Roberts, and I know_ everything!

“I don’t actually,” the Masked Man said coolly.  “That’s just marketing.  Every video is researched, produced, edited.”

“You need to know this, though,” Anderson said, “or I’ll blow Watson’s head off.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I really will.  I’ve wanted to since I got him—that noble little Alpha head, filled with all that pathetic Alpha longing for his _mate_.”

“You could have done it already, but you haven’t.”

“Because I thought perhaps you had answers. If you don’t, it’ll be over for him.”

“Answers to what?”

“That night?  Hello? Haven’t we just had this conversation?”  Anderson arched an eyebrow.  “Or are you stalling?  I know you’re quick with the syringe, and probably other weapons as well.  You have to be strong to have beaten Fezzik.  But maybe you’re not as clever as advertised.”  Anderson clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth twice, then cocked the hammer back on his gun.  “That’s really a shame.”

“Oh, fine,” the Masked Man said, forcing his panic down and leaning back in his chair as if he was bored.  “Might as well. Tell me about that night, then.”

“So I don’t kill him?”

“Oh, come now.  You know the stakes, surely.  I answer the puzzle and I get to return the Alpha to his desperately worried fiancée.  I don’t, and you’ll kill him.”

“I could probably kill him anyway.”

“Not very sportsmanlike of you.”

“I don’t have any reason to be a good sport.”

“So you’re going to pretend you brought him all this way to lure me here and kill him?”

“I want answers!” Anderson shouted, his voice breaking.

“You’re not giving me any incentive to give them to you.”

Anderson sighed.  “Fine.  I give you my word.”

“Not good enough. Put down the gun and let’s chat like civilized adults.”

Anderson studied him a moment, and it was long enough to let the Masked Man cut a concerned glance at John Watson, who’d been silent as a statue throughout all of this. He was bound with his hands in his lap and a familiar blue silk scarf tied into a blindfold over his eyes, his chin slumped into his collarbones.  The Masked Man again stifled a flinch: John Watson seemed resigned to his fate, even accepting of it.  It was not a good look on him, on this soldier and doctor who thrived on the chase and—

The Masked Man tore his attention away from this tangent and returned to the moment.  It would not do to let his thoughts get away from him, not now with the game so nearly won.

“Fine.”  Anderson uncocked the pistol and laid it on the table in front of them.

“Good.  Now tell me what happened that night.”

“You already know.”  Anderson’s eyes gleamed with certainty.  “You’ve read this one’s blog.  Do you know what it does to a forensic tech’s career if he can’t find any trace of a shooter?”

“Nothing good,” the Masked Man said neutrally.

Anderson let out a sharp bark of amusement.  “No!  No indeed.  Nothing good.” He sighed.  “That case haunted me for the rest of the time I was with the Met.  Of course, Holmes wasn’t interested in helping me find whoever it had been had saved his sorry arse, but the paperwork stayed unfiled for over a year.  That along with the way Holmes died made me something of a . . .well, an albatross, I guess.”

“Tough luck there,” the Masked Man said.

“I just want to know what happened. Why I had to lose my job. That job meant a lot to me.”

“No spent casings?” the Masked Man asked, his tenor flat.

John Watson’s head picked up a little from where it had been slumped.  A tiny twitch to the left side of his mouth almost seemed like a smile.  The Masked Man hoped it was one.  A small, even a tiny one, would be far better than the apathy from moments ago.

“No.”

“So something of a professional.”

“At least.”

John Watson smirked again, just the tiniest bit, but it was enough for even Anderson to see, if he’d been looking.  The Masked Man wanted to tell him not to be such a bloody transparent idiot, to not wear his heart on his sleeve just this _once_.  But . . .that wasn’t John Watson. John Watson was grins and frustration, bared teeth and high-pitched giggles. John Watson was the soul of transparency.

It would be up to him, then, to be the stoic one, the soldier in this situation. He could do that.

“So you want me to tell you some philosophical reason behind why you had to lose your job.”

“No, that’s not what I want at all.”

“I suppose, then, I don’t follow you.  It sounds like you know full well why you were terminated from your job, the factual reasons for it: a case unsolved too long, a bad reputation attached to a lying, suicidal hack—”

John Watson let out a grunt and the Masked Man shifted his attention to him again.  There it was, the bared teeth of anger, clearly a reaction to having his dead mate slandered.  _Even now. Faithful, even now._

“I want to know who did it.  I want to know who fired the shot that killed Jeff Hope, and I want to know the truth behind Sherlock Holmes’s suicide.”  Anderson leaned forward in his seat, some kind of mad glee sparkling in his eyes. “Because you know what I think?  I think Holmes is alive.  I think he faked it, and I think he’s still out there.”  Anderson leaned back again, looking as smug as a card sharp who’d played his trump.

“That’s preposterous,” the Masked Man huffed.  “There were witnesses, police reports, autopsies.”

For the first time since this encounter started, John Watson spoke, his voice near a whisper and an echo of a long-gone acquaintance: “DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.”  He straightened his spine and faced the Masked Man with some new alertness lighting his features.

“What?” Anderson huffed at his captive. 

Watson shook his head once, a firm refusal to answer.

“So you lured me here to ask me rhetorical questions and advance a few crackpot theories,” the Masked Man asserted, again trying to shift Anderson’s madness from John to himself.  “There’s no actual chance you’ll release Watson to me.”

“Ah, hmm.”

It was disappointing, in the end. Anderson was no card sharp after all.  He had no trump cards. John Watson was clearly more valuable to him dead than alive, but he desperately wanted to seem like not only a person who could play a game, but one who could master the whole tournament.   He was grievously out of his depth, and frankly, Watson’s renewed vitality was motive enough to move this along to its conclusion, because while Watson was never much of an actor, he could be a marvelous loose cannon—as the Masked Man had proof.

Even so . . .just for pity’s sake, the Masked Man found himself compelled to offer this sad idiot one last chance to redeem himself. “So even if I were to identify Hope’s killer, and even if I were to tell you definitively not only if Holmes is dead or alive, but his specific location, you would not actually release Watson to me, would you?”

“I’m trying to start a war, so . . .no, sorry.  You’re not getting him.”

“Holy fuck, you’re a complete bloody wanker, aren’t you?” John Watson hissed.  He lunged forward and in one smooth movement grabbed Anderson’s gun, cocked it, and pointed it at him.  “One, you bound my hands _in front_.  Who does that?  Nobody does that.  Far too easy to work my hands free.”  He held up one of his wrists to show the chafing caused by the ropes as he worked his hands free.  Then he whipped the scarf off from around his eyes and flicked his wrist until the scarf opened, falling into a thin pane of material.  “And this?  For fuck’s sake, it’s _silk_.  I can see right through it!”  He shook his head sadly.  “Sherlock was always right about you: not enough brains to work your way through a tube map.  Now, enough of all this talking with that one,” John gritted out as he waved the gun carelessly in the direction of the Masked Man.  “You have five seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t kill you, and if you give me a reason I don’t like, not only will I shoot you but I’ll put the bullet somewhere painful and _hard for doctors to get it out of._ ”

The Masked Man wanted to laugh.  He hoped his mask was doing a good enough job of conveying his mirth.

“Please don’t kill me,” Anderson whined, and the sharp smell of urine filled the room.  “Oh, god, please don’t.  I don’t know what else to do. I’m only in this for the money, I need the money.  I don’t have a job, no prospects, I can’t.”

“Oh, god, you’re so _pathetic_ I can’t stand it,” John said, “but honestly, I don’t really have a gripe with you.  I should thank you, actually.”  The gun swung until it pointed directly at the Masked Man’s face.  “I’m going to kill this one, so I’ll kindly ask you to run along . . .now, Phillip, before we add blood stains to the pee stains on your trousers.” 

Phillip Anderson rose quickly from where he’d been sitting and exited the building at a full sprint, but not before the Masked Man caught a whiff of the second sort of waste material humans can produce.

He wanted to chortle, to celebrate the victory—but at the moment he was faced with an armed and very pissed off John Watson.

“Do I get a chance to spare myself?” the Masked Man asked, standing and holding his arms out to his sides. “I’m unarmed.”

“You killed my mate.”

“I did not.  He killed himself.”

“You spread lies about him.”

“Did I?  Occurs to me I had plenty of evidence.”

“All of it has since been disproved.”

“Yes, and full retractions were printed.”

Watson barked a bitter laugh.  “Ha!  Retractions buried behind other, fresher scandals.”

“Scandals are my stock in trade.  Truth very much is not.”

“Your scandals ended the life of the brightest, best, most beautiful person I’d ever met.”  John’s iron resolve melted as he spoke, and finally his voice broke.  The Masked Man watched as he crumpled back into his seat.  “My mate.  My lovely, ridiculous, perfect mate.”

“John.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, and the Masked Man could hear the fury rising in John’s voice.  He gritted his teeth and fixed the gun on the Masked Man’s face again.  “I want you to die.  I want you to die knowing it was me who killed you.”

“As you wish,” the Masked Man said, returning his voice to his natural deep baritone and spreading his arms again.  He closed his eyes, accepting of whatever John Watson would give him.

“What?”

“As you wish, John, whatever you wish of me, I’ll give to you.  I’m yours, now as always.  I’m yours to have, in death as in life—so if you want me to die, there is no way I’d rather than at your hands.”

Sherlock heard the clatter of Anderson’s gun as it fell from John’s nerveless fingers. “Sherlock?” he heard next, in a trembling whisper.  The hands were also trembling as they gently lifted away the hat, then the wig, then the garish Guy Fawkes mask behind which Sherlock Holmes had been hiding for two years.

He cocked a half smile.  _Almost there_ , he thought—

Before a fist struck him hard enough to make him black out.


End file.
